


Eternal

by flowersforgraves



Series: please help I'm in depeche mode hell [44]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sibling Incest, Twincest, ambiguously neurodivergent character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23834869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/pseuds/flowersforgraves
Summary: A blowjob in an alleyway and brainfog sounds like a standard after-murder activity.
Relationships: Connor MacManus/Murphy MacManus
Series: please help I'm in depeche mode hell [44]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1130651
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: What Fen Do (Instead of Going Outside), When Death Loves Flamingos





	Eternal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SomeHorribleFen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeHorribleFen/gifts).



> it's not as much porn as I thought, and more of my id, but I hope this works for you, SHF!

“What are you gonna do, fuck me?” Murphy’s teeth are bright in the shadow, and Connor doesn’t want to let go of the high that comes with fulfilling their God-given duty, so he grabs his twin and pulls him close. “Well? Are you, Connor?”

Connor kisses him rough, and he tastes blood on Murphy’s lips as their teeth click together with the force of Murphy leaning forward to meet him halfway. “Can’t wait until we get home? You just want me to fuck you in a fuckin’ alley?”

Murphy presses Connor back against the wall. “Fuck you,” he says, still smiling. “I’m not the one who’s about to come in his pants.”

Connor pushes back, twisting his wrists out of Murphy’s grip. “Fuck _you_ ,” he retaliates. “I wouldn’t be turned on if you weren’t such a fuckin’ tease.”

Murphy kisses him again, hard enough that Connor knows his lips will bruise tomorrow. “If you weren’t so easy I wouldn’t tease,” he says. 

“Fuck,” Connor breathes, fingers digging into Murphy’s hips. “Come on, Murph, tell me what you want.”

“I want you to suck me,” Murphy says, voice low and hoarse. “Right here. I want yer mouth on me and I wanna see you on your knees.” He punctuates the end with another brutal kiss, and Connor can practically feel his senses sharpening as he tries to take in everything about this moment.

Connor barely bites back a moan. “Fuck,” he whimpers again, and pulls Murphy in for another kiss. He drops to his knees, sliding his hands down Murphy’s sides and legs as he opens his mouth. He tips his chin up, blinking slowly, and looks up at Murphy. It’s the same way he kneels for prayer every day, but -- Connor is worshipping his brother’s cock, swallowing Murph’s come in place of holy communion, praising his twin’s body, singing hymns with lips spit-slick and throat raw. It’s the same way he feels God, too, the same way he prays and the same way he loves, God present in the sweat he kisses away from Murphy’s skin, in the coppery taste of blood when he or Murph bites too hard, in the quiet moments afterward where they wrap each other in safety.

He mouths at the outline of Murphy’s erection over his jeans, fingers clenched in the denim over Murphy’s thighs. Murphy is fucking beautiful like this, trying desperately to swallow quiet noises while Connor hasn’t even gotten to the good bit yet. He pulls back slowly, licking his lips to taste the salt, and making sure to get a good look at Murphy’s face. His brother’s eyes are wide, mouth slightly open and lips bitten red. 

Connor’s fingers are clumsy with eagerness, lust making him stumble as he tries to undo Murphy’s belt. Murphy already has his hands tangled in Connor’s hair, nails scratching against his scalp. “Having some problems?” he asks Connor, half-laughing. It’s a bold statement for him to make, considering how debauched he looks already. 

“Not helpful,” Connor mumbles, and finally manages to get Murphy’s belt unbuckled. His fingers slip off the button of Murphy’s jeans, and he takes a deep, if shaky, breath to steady himself. “Longer you spend makin’ fun of me, longer it takes before my mouth’s on your dick.”

Murphy’s fingers tighten in Connor’s hair, tugging none too gently. “Like I said, brother, I’m not the one about to come in his pants.” But the tension in his voice betrays his own arousal, and Connor knows he’s not going to last long. 

The button comes free, and Connor tugs Murphy’s jeans halfway down his thighs. His hands are still shaking, but he yanks Murphy’s boxers down and finally lets his brother’s cock free. He licks the tip of Murphy’s cock briefly, just a single swipe of his tongue, and then, with a quick shuddering breath, Connor puts his mouth on Murphy’s dick like he’s been starved for it. 

Murphy gasps and yanks on Connor’s hair, swearing under his breath. “Conn, fuck,” he pants, pushing his hips forward and forcing Connor to take more of his cock. “Fuck! You’re -- Conn, you’re doing so fuckin’ good, Conn, fuck, you’re gonna make me come in your mouth, fuck --” and the only words coming out of his mouth are “fuck” and “Connor” and that’s how he knows he’s doing a good job.

Connor hums, opening eagerly for Murphy, digging his nails into his twin’s now-bare hips and ass. He scratches at Murphy’s skin, knowing that afterward he’ll see pink lines when he and Murphy curl up tonight. One hand drops from Murphy’s side to between Connor’s legs, providing Connor some much-needed friction on his own dick.

Murphy whines as Connor’s teeth scrape over the head of his cock, and finally disentangles his right hand from Connor’s hair to squeeze the base of his dick. “Fuck, Connor, Conn, fuck, I’m gonna --”

Connor pulls back, eyes half-lidded. “Me too,” he says hoarsely, and chokes on a moan. “Let me --” He leans forward again, swallowing his twin’s cock and letting Murphy fuck into his mouth as hard as he wants. With a deep inhale, he holds Murphy deep in his mouth, and feels Murphy tense as he comes down Connor’s throat. 

He swallows, because he’s not a fucking animal, and holds Murphy in his mouth until his twin’s dick softens. Murphy pulls back, and Connor frantically fumbles with his own belt, trying to salvage his boxers before he comes all over himself.

He’s not entirely successful. Connor comes with a muffled groan, teeth digging into the meat of his own forearm to flatten the sound, and spills all over his shirt, but at least his pants aren’t ruined. They’re definitely going to have to do laundry anyway, though, not only for the semen but also -- his knees are cold and wet, because he’s been kneeling in the thin layer of muck that covers the ground in this alley for five minutes, and all of a sudden he _feels_ it. Without the adrenalin of carrying out their mission, and without the warmth of arousal, he’s very aware of the cold-wet-slimy texture he’s kneeling on, and he stands up in a single awkward motion.

“Murph,” he says, mouth suddenly feeling impossibly clumsy and tripping over words. 

“Hm?” Murphy’s rebuttoned his pants and now is reaching out to tip Connor’s chin up. “Conn? Still with me?”

He lets Murphy guide his face and tilt his head where he wants. “I’m tired,” Connor mumbles. “I can’t -- ‘s like all the brain energy is gone again. Don’t know why.”

Murphy pulls Connor in close so that Connor is leaning on him, which is very nice because Murphy is warm and strong and solid, and apparently has a lot more usefulness left in his hands because he rebuttons Connor’s pants for him on the first try. “Let’s go home,” he says. “How’s that sound? Shower and then bed?”

“Let’s go home,” Connor repeats. “Shower would be good.” He gestures vaguely at the muck-soaked knees of his pants and then the come staining the front of his shirt, just to emphasize the point. 

He doesn’t remember much of the walk back, but he does remember the warmth of Murphy against his side while the wind blows through the wet patches on his knees. He hates feeling like this, like a hangover without drinking, but Murphy is the best brother and takes care of him. This isn’t an extraordinarily common occurrence, but it’s happened before -- sharp clarity while fighting, having sex, anything that costs a lot of energy, and then as soon as the adrenalin drops Connor’s lost in his own head, forced to make an effort to even speak coherently. 

Murphy gets them both into the shower before Connor can fight through the fog well enough to turn off his body’s autopilot. “Thanks,” he says, because the cold water helps his mouth work again, and Murphy’s putting soap in both of their hair even though he definitely doesn’t have to do this.

“Yeah,” Murphy says, smiling at him with a softness that Connor would probably resent if he wasn’t so fucking _tired_. Murph’s smiles aren’t rare things, but this is the kind of smile Connor only gets when Murphy’s done something irrevocably stupid and is trying to get Connor to forgive him, or when Murphy has to act the elder brother and take care of Connor. He wants to curl up in his brother’s bed and fall asleep, wants to sleep off this fucking not-hangover, wants to lean on Murphy and cling and hold and not get out of bed tomorrow.

Murphy almost has to catch him when he half-stumbles getting out of the shower, but Connor’s saved that indignity by luck and the convenience of their kitchen table. His knees ache, which fucking sucks because they’re twenty fucking four, God damn it, they’re twenty-four and working-class and Connor does _not_ need to have bad knees at this age. He almost says as much out loud, but Murphy is busy making hot tea and almost definitely doesn’t want to hear it.

The mug of tea nearly slips out of Connor’s hands as he tries to hold it, but he saves it with muscle memory more than any conscious effort. “Hey Murph?” he asks. His lips and tongue don’t feel so stupidly unwieldy anymore, though his fingers still aren’t cooperating super well. “I want -- can I sleep in your bed?”

Murphy pulls on the collar of his robe, reaching for his rosary. “Why are you even asking me?” He smiles, again with that same gentleness that makes Connor feel like he’s twelve years old. “Unless you want me to sleep in your bed?”

Connor shakes his head. “No. Let’s do rosary?”

Murphy doesn’t reply, just hands Connor his rosary already at the first bead. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” Murphy begins, and Connor falls into the familiar rhythm of prayer just as easily as he’d fallen to his knees to suck Murphy’s cock an hour ago. He turns his brain off, lets the words come as naturally as breathing, because his world is narrowing down, becoming just Murphy and the beads between his fingers and the feeling of God present in the room, and all of a sudden he can’t bear to not be touching his twin.

Connor puts the tea down on the table before he stumbles out of the chair and toward his brother. Murphy doesn’t react when Connor wraps his arms around him, continuing the prayer in an even, measured voice. Connor follows, “thy kingdom come, thy will be done,” and if God isn’t physically present then He is spiritually there, He is in the warmth of Murphy’s skin and the steady beat of his heart, and He is helping Connor move his fingers over the beads as they move onto the third solemn mystery. Murphy puts one arm around Connor, thumb rubbing a tiny section of his upper arm, and God is there too, in His glory and power and He is with them both as Murphy leans down to press a gentle kiss to Connor’s hair. 

They finish praying the rosary in what feels like an eternity of a moment, and then Connor is too tired to hold onto the beads anymore, and Murphy takes them both and hangs them on the wall. Connor whines at the loss of contact, but Murphy is back in a heartbeat and pulling Connor to his feet. “Murph,” Connor says, and he wants to be held and he wants to kiss Murphy and he wants to just go to bed.

“Connor,” Murphy replies, and Connor doesn’t want to feel his chest fill with warmth when Murphy says his name in that indulgent way, but he _does_ , because Murphy is his center and always has been, always will be. “Anything else?”

“No,” Connor says, and his mouth has become full of molasses or marbles or wool again, and he can barely hear his own voice. “Murph, just you.”

“Just you,” Murphy echoes.


End file.
